Gabriel was not forgotten.  Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured; 1280
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 1285
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow,
Meekly with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 1290
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 
Night after night when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 1295
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city,
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons,
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. 1300
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September,
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow,
So death flooded life, and, o’erflowing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; 1305
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;—­
Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants,
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;—­
Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket 1310
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
Softly the words of the Lord:—­“The poor ye always have with you.” 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy.  The dying
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 1315
Such as the artist paints o’er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o’er a city seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.